NO CONFESSION.

A WOMAN IS HER SISTER'S HUSBAND'S LOVER IN 1920'S NEWYORK.

You couldn’t tell
Your sister you

Were her husband’s
Lover, even when you

Were with her at the
Café and she’d let out

Her fears and sipped
Coffee and put her

Hand on yours and
Said she knew he

Was seeing someone
Because of the way he

Acted and the lipstick
On his collar that wasn’t

Hers, the wrong shade of
Red, and the scent on his

Clothes seemed too cheap
To belong to her, and besides

Why did he act so sheepish
And find it difficult to sleep?

She moaned. You could only
Offer two-faced sympathy,

Looking over her shoulder,
Hoping the waiter didn’t

Recognize you as the dame
Humphrey brought in some

Days (his best customer or
So Mario said) and sat in the

Corner with, laughing and
Kissing hands, and looking

Into each other’s eyes. What’s
She got I haven’t? Your sister

Asked, looking over her cup,
Her eyes the colour of a dull

Sea. I bet she’s some cheap
S**t he’s picked up from the

Office, you know the type,
All a*s and bra and with the

Speech of some Bronx b***h.
She sat silent then, sipping in

Slow slurps, her eyes looking
At the tablecloth with sauce

Stains. Humphrey knew she
Knew something, the wife’s

Intuition he called it; she
Can sniff a dame’s perfume in

A wino’s alley, he’d said the
Last time he had you in bed,

Their bed, while she was at
Mother’s, the ceiling, the bed,

Her pillows, the same Degas
Painting print on the wall.

You couldn’t tell your sister
You were her husband’s lover,

Even when she embraced you
And kissed you after seeing

Mother; not even when she
Sat moping by the river with

You, threatening to throw her
Sad self in. But she didn’t of

Course, she went home and
Cooked Humphrey’s dinner,

Pretended all was well, smoking
French cigarettes, sipping her

Gin, sleeping in the same bed
With him that you’d slept in.